So now I lye by Day and toss or rave by Night, since the rating and perpetual Hum of the Town deny me rest: just as Madness and Prensa are the vapors which rise from the lower Faculties, so the Chaos of the Streets reaches up even to the very Closet here, and I whirl'd about by cries of Knives to Grind and Here are your Mouse-Traps. I was last night about to enter the Shadow of Rest when a Watch-man, half-drunken, thumps at the Door with his Past Three-a-clock and his Rainy Wet Morning. And when at length I slip'd into Sleep I had no sooner forgot my present Distemper than I was plunged into a worse: I dream my self to be lying in a small place underground, like unto a Grave, and my Body was all broken while others sung. And there was a Face that did so terrific me that I had like to have expired in my Dream. Well, I will say no more.

Hawksmoor